


Within, Without

by FushigiNoKuniNo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Because I can, Gen, Inevitable Canon Divergence, canon-typical jon being an idiot, coffinfic, deus ex mediocre poetry, fandom-typical shouting at jon for being an idiot, there are pairings but nothing much happens so don't get your hopes up, there is a happy ending though because i'm not MEAN like SOME PEOPLE JONNY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FushigiNoKuniNo/pseuds/FushigiNoKuniNo
Summary: When it came down to it, it would always be worth one more scar, one more shot in the dark. One more for the collection.(Spoilers through MAG 131—after which it will doubtless become canon non-compliant as Jonny presents us with something worse than our most terrible imaginings.)





	Within, Without

The moment his head passed below the lip of the coffin, Jon was plunged into darkness. There was no waning sliver of light, no thud of the lid slamming closed—though he assumed that, from Melanie’s perspective, it must have done. For him, however, the world outside had simply ceased to exist, taking the concept of illumination with it. Only the stairs beneath him remained. And so he walked down, down, down—into what, he couldn’t say. It could have been a narrow tunnel, or a gaping cavern, for all of the difference that made here, in the cloying dark.

He walked, and he walked, and then he...stopped. He _was_ stopped—the stillness entirely divorced from his own volition. But he _felt_ it. He felt it all around, pressing against every inch of his clothing, his skin, his eyes.

Crushing, entombing...and _hating_ , he knew with an unsettling surety. Whatever it was that was here, that was _everywhere_ , it _loathed_ him.

It was soil, chill and solid, packed against him on all sides—

_Not enough space to move. Never enough to breathe..._

It was suffocating, choking, flowing into his lungs like water, a voracious flood—

_I don’t know if you’ve ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced..._

It was squirming, writhing, _agonizing_ , he thought, even as it took shape—took _shapes_ —around him, and all at once, he felt the press of arms and legs and contorted faces of doomed souls deprived even of nightmares.

_It is too much what it is for death to find you there._

Buried.

He might’ve laughed, then. Would have, perhaps, if his arms weren’t crushed to his chest crushed to his spine _crushed and collapsing under the weight that bore down and up and everywhere—_

If there were any space for breath to escape his lungs.

Flesh. What a ridiculous notion it had been. As if the call of his own body could reach him here.

He wondered dimly, through the oxygen deprivation and rising panic, if Daisy had had any better luck: if she’d found a way to tear her way through the immovable mass of not-corpses. He doubted it.

_No prey, no Hunt, no movement…_

However.

When it came down to it, it would always be worth one more scar, one more shot in the dark. One more for the collection.

With tiny bit of mobility that still remained to him, he dug his fingernails into the skin of one arm. Clawed them deep and pressed hard, taking advantage of the shifting weight that sought to destroy him until, finally, he drew blood. He didn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

Martin edged cautiously toward the door to the Archives. It was terribly annoying to have to act as if he were engaged in some sort of espionage every time he so much as got up to make tea, but it was necessary to avoid running into Jon these days. The man had a—literally, Martin suspected—uncanny knack for turning up where he shouldn’t be. That being the case, it likely made no difference whether his footsteps could be heard or not, but he nonetheless crept down the hall as silently as possible. Better to be safe than sorry—however limited that safety might be.

He tiptoed past the door, barely noticing the sounds within for his concentration. He had just begun to relax, reasoning that if Jon hadn’t come bursting out of the Archives by now, he probably wouldn’t, when a voice echoed through the corridor. He jumped.

“And you _let_ him!?” Basira’s voice was muffled, but still much louder than he had ever heard it—at least outside of being actively attacked by squelching flesh chimeras. “I thought you were _done_ with trying to murder him?”

“Oh, as if you’re not the one who left him here with the ravening box from hell!” That would be Melanie. Her shouting came as far less of a surprise.

"I _told_ him...open...” Basira quieted her voice, perhaps recognizing how forcefully she was speaking. Melanie made no such effort.

“And, what— You want me to believe that you expected him to listen?”

“I thought... _contain himself_...another way...” Martin was only catching snippets now. That was for the best, he knew, but— He hesitated.

“But you didn’t bother mentioning that to him, did you? Just like everything else.”

“Maybe I didn’t think you would bend over backward to help him be stupid!” Basira had helpfully raised her voice again. “Look, I know you don’t care, but this is beyond—”

“Oh, _I_ don’t care? I’m just about convinced that I’m the only person in this place who cares at all!”

“Right. Funny way of showing it.”

“Yeah, well, at least it was his choice, ok? He wanted to save Daisy. He wanted to save _you_. That was his decision. And I’m so sorry if it interferes with your _secret master plan_ —”

“You should be! Have you even thought about what you’ll do if he doesn’t come back this time? Or if what does isn’t _him_ anymore?”

“And who decides that, you? Just like you did with me?”

Even with a door between them, Martin could hear Basira’s teeth clack together, so forcefully did she snap her jaw shut at that. There was a long silence.

He shouldn’t ask. He really, really shouldn’t ask. He had heard too much already. But…

But the subject of Basira and Melanie’s conversation had been unmistakable.

_Have you even thought about what you’ll do if he doesn’t come back this time?_

Dammit.

Martin pushed his way into the Archives.

“Oh, perfect. We’ve attracted an audience,” said Melanie, throwing up her hands. She hadn’t had much patience for him at the best of times, and these were certainly...not. Perhaps she would appreciate the direct approach.

“What was that about?” At this, Melanie just scoffed. Well, then. Apparently not.

“Why? Back to pretending to give a rat’s ass about us?”

 _That’s not fair_ , Martin thought, but could not say.

“Just…” he sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. He struggled to keep his tone even as he continued. “Just tell me—should I be...worried?”

To his surprise, Melanie didn’t retort immediately. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, and considered him for a moment.

“Alright. I suppose you can decide for yourself.” And with that, she turned and walked toward Jon’s office, waving with one hand for them to follow.

The sight that greeted him inside was at once less and more horrifying than he had anticipated. There was no Jon—injured, comatose, or otherwise. However, the desk was spattered with blood and, inexplicably, acting as pedestal to a single bone. On the floor sat a coffin, somehow looming despite its low height. He was aware of his skin prickling amidst a pall of mounting dread as his mind raced to complete the puzzle.

“What—” Martin began, before realizing he wasn’t quite sure which question to ask. He swallowed. “That’s… That’s the coffin. From the statements.”

“Oh, well done,” said Melanie, though she at least had the courtesy not to roll her eyes.

“And...where’s Jon?” _Please let me be wrong._

“Where do you think?”

“Melanie.” He knew his voice was strained. Almost pleading. He didn’t care.

“Fine. Yes, he’s gone into the coffin to find Daisy, and yes, I helped him do it. Happy?”

Martin was most certainly _not_ happy.

“What—” he began again, groping for a more appropriate follow-up than “ _the hell_ ,” but Basira saved him the trouble.

“So, what _was_ his plan, exactly?” She was turning the bone over in her hands, examining it. Martin wondered vaguely why she was so unconcerned with all of the blood. Melanie shrugged.

“He thought leaving part of himself here might help him come back.”

“ _Part of himself?_ ” Martin didn’t feel himself form the words—it was more like he heard them after the fact. The chill running through his body had morphed into a tangible nothingness, and he felt with conviction that he and his limbs were no longer part of the same whole.

Jon was meant to be safe. That had been the _plan_. That had been the point of earning Melanie’s scorn, and Basira’s distrust, and...whatever emotion he had glimpsed in Jon the last time they had met, and which he had refused to contemplate since. It was reason he had severed the bonds he once labored so hard to create, whittling himself away bit by bit until he felt achingly hollow. His sacrifice was meant to, should have, kept Jon _safe_.

He was dimly aware that the others were staring at him, but couldn’t really find it in him to worry about what they might be thinking. God, this was his fault. If he’d only...

_Daisy might be alive._

If he’d only listened. Hadn’t gotten caught up in his own panic and fled, leaving Jon behind with creeping horrors to prey upon him. _Again._ He had been trying to be brave—had thought that he had been succeeding. But bravery and fear had always gone hand in hand, hadn’t they?

Martin closed his eyes. Then he echoed a memory.

“Oh, Jon, what have you done?”

 

* * *

 

 

It could have been minutes or days that Jon waited, blood seeping from his arm. Paralyzed, and choking, and unable to scream. Losing parts of himself until all he had was the weighty sensation of dying, dying, not being dead.

When the pain came, he was almost grateful for it. It was a sharp, biting sensation in his shoulder, deepening as something, someone pressed against him with even more force than the rest. Clawlike fingers dug into his chest.

The Hunter.

...And, he found as his senses refocused, his initial perception had been accurate—she was, in fact, biting him. Lovely.

But at least he had a plan for this. Had figured long before embarking on this fool’s errand that if he could get her talking, she might stop attempting to savage him long enough to come back to her—still murderous, but at least somewhat less so—self.

“Daisy...” He forced her name out through a throat he wasn’t entirely sure still existed, and she showed no sign of having heard him.

Well. It had been worth a try. He knew she would be angry at him for what he had to do next...but it was a necessary evil, and far preferable to the one entombing them at the moment.

The Archivist didn’t need lungs to speak.

 

* * *

 

 

Without really thinking about it, Martin found himself taking a seat near the coffin. On the floor, of course—the only chair in the room belonged to Jon. He sat, and he stared. What else could he do?

Melanie had given an explanation, sure, but it was clearly for Basira’s benefit—vague in just enough places to keep him in the dark. It was all statements, and Boneturning, and _“the blood was him trying to chop off a finger, but you know, same deal as with the shoulder I guess,”_ and he had no idea as to the how and why of any of it. All he knew was that he had missed more than he could have guessed.

As he sat there, he tried not to let this bother him. He failed.

Basira and Daisy had gone quiet as well, perhaps having run out of things that could be said in his company, but clearly unwilling to leave him alone with the bone and the coffin. If he tried, he wondered, could he make them understand? Convince them that he was still on their side? Propose a trade of information?

Coincidentally, Peter Lukas chose that moment to manifest out of seemingly thin air.

“And what’s all this, now?”

In an uncharacteristic show of surprise, Basira’s eyes widened. Melanie jumped, pulling a scalpel from her jacket pocket. But Martin, he merely stood up.

“Our Archivist has gone. We’re waiting for him to return.”

“Well, I should hardly think that three people are necessary for that,” Lukas said pleasantly. As he did so, the shapes of Basira and Daisy began to waver. The room blurred, as if overlaid with static from an old television set, all ambient noise suddenly dampened.

But Martin, he was so very _weary_ of all of this.

“I disagree,” he said, and as he did so, he _pulled_. Everything rushed back into focus, and he and Peter were standing with Daisy and Basira once again.

Peter stared at him, just for a moment, before regaining his composure. To the others, he doubtless looked entirely unruffled.

“Martin, I do so dislike having to retread this ground over and over again.” Peter’s tone was genial. Martin wasn’t fooled.

“Then don’t,” he snapped.

“Come now, be reasonable. Surely you see the futility of this...” Peter went on, gesturing at the coffin. Martin gave him a withering look.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Yes, well. One stroke of luck does not portend another, Martin. And either way, you must know how counterproductive your tendency to fret over Jonathan Sims is by now. You are meant to have greater concerns.”

“With _respect_ ,” Martin said coldly, “Jonathan Sims is my greater concern. And frankly, Peter, you need me a lot more than I need you.” It wasn’t the most opportune time to tip his hand, really, but he was _tired_. Tiring of waiting, tired of pretending, tired of _loss_. “You and yours are hanging on by a thread, and don’t think that the Spider isn’t poised to climb up it and replace you.”

“...I can assure you that Elias is not unprepared for that eventuality,” Basira chimed in. Martin had to suppress a smirk. Too quick by half, that one.

“We will address the other existential threats in due time, I assure you, but right now, you need to _get out_.”

“...Very well,” said Peter stiffly, “but we will discuss this further at a later time.”

“I don’t doubt that we will.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Daisy, are you still you in there?”

“I— Yes. ...Oh, what the _fuck_?” Daisy’s voice came as a wheezing whisper, but it came.

And she had stopped treating him like a kebab, so that was pleasant. Jon would have liked to return the favor by providing some manner of explanation, but as his power only applied to other people’s answers, he had to settle for another question instead. Anything that would keep her talking.

“What’s happened to you in here?”

“What do you think’s happened?” she hissed, “I’ve been clawing and tearing and screaming and fighting and fighting and _fighting_ to get out, but I can’t do any of those things, can I? Because I’m here, whatever _here_ is, and you know what _here_ feels like.”

Jon did know, but he was only half listening. He needed whatever time he could get to take stock of all he knew about the Buried, before Daisy lost herself again, or they were _both_ lost to the suffocating pressure around them.

If he could have opened the door in his mind, he might have done so already, but it was so still and silent as to be invisible, and even the cracks through which he might normally catch a glimpse of inspiration were lost to darkness. The Beholding’s knowledge couldn’t reach him here—yet he was still the Archivist. To not be afraid of what that implied was a vain pursuit, so he didn’t bother.

Whoever he was, he was on his own. So he cast his thoughts toward Karolina Gorka, and to Kulbir Shakya. He thought about anchors, and he thought about fear.

 _And fighting and fighting and_ fighting _to get out..._

But how get Daisy to stop fighting? He only knew one person capable of that, and she— Oh.

“...Daisy, what is most important to you in the world?”

“Basira,” she answered immediately, before slamming her mouth closed so fast that her teeth caught on her lip, drawing blood. Oh, she was going to be cross with him later. He forged onward, heedless.

“And why Basira?” Daisy growled, obviously not pleased to be forced to speak about this. Her fingernails were cutting into him again, but that would heal.

“I...I didn’t think anyone would ever tolerate me, before Basira. Most people see me, they take off in the opposite direction. But Basira doesn’t...judge, you know. Well, if you’re wearing a stupid hat, sure, but not because of what you do to survive.” As she spoke, Daisy relaxed. He could feel her fingers slacken, then the rest of her, her forehead coming to rest against his already healed shoulder. “The first time she invited me over, like I was a real person, I couldn’t believe it. We spent the whole night making fun of awful police procedurals. I don’t think I had ever had as much fun as…”

Something shifted. As it happened, Jon _knew_. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Martin, that was brilliant,” Basira said. Melanie only gaped at him. He couldn't find the energy to be pleased.

“Maybe hold your applause until we see if Peter vanishes anyone out of spite,” he said, sitting back down heavily, rubbing his eyes...and finding his trousers almost completely covered in dirt as the coffin disgorged a massive heap of soil.

“Wha—” he began, but before he could even fully register his confusion at the fact that quite a bit of the outdoors suddenly seemed to be indoors, a hand emerged from the pile. And by the time that one had made it through the shock-and-horror queue, the pile had exploded, showering the floor, shelves, desk, and everyone present with dirt. Where it had been was the seething form of Daisy Tonner.

Jon had done it. He had brought her back. _Daisy_. Daisy, who was making a fist. Daisy, whose first words returned from the dead were...

“Right, where’s Jon, I’m going to kick his a—”

“He’s not here,” Martin interrupted, having just arrived at this conclusion. How… _How?_ Daisy was here. She was _here_ , and Jon had gone to get her, so _he_ should be here. He _should_.

“He wasn’t with you?” Basira asked, laying a hand on Daisy’s forearm. Daisy looked at it as if she hadn’t realized what her limb had been up to, and unclenched her fist. Her whole body relaxed visibly as Basira’s hand slid into hers.

“No—I mean, he was. And then he did that _thing_ he does...” she replied, confusion and irritation mingling in her voice, “and I forgot where I was. And when I remembered, I...wasn’t.”

“He pulled a statement out of you?” Basira frowned.

“Wait, what?” interjected Martin. Basira waved him off.

“No, he asked me a question. It was—” Daisy glanced at Martin and Melanie before returning her gaze to a relieved Basira, “Not important. Wasn’t his business, is the point.”

“Then why—” Martin began, but was interrupted by Melanie.

“It was something to do with Basira, wasn’t it? What he asked you.”

Daisy shot her a murderous look, but nodded.

“An _anchor_.” Melanie laughed mirthlessly, closing her eyes and running a hand through her hair. “Jon, you absolute moron.”

“Oh...shit,” said Basira, catching on immediately. “Oh, you _idiot_.”

“ _What?_ ” Martin was more than a little exasperated now.

“You might want to sit back down.”

 

* * *

 

 

The flicker of triumph Jon had experienced died quickly in the wake of Daisy’s ascent—he was blessedly sure that was what it had been—as the insatiable tomb pressed into the space she had occupied, devouring him once again. It felt even closer now, if that was possible, as if it were trying not merely to crush him but fill him, subsume his existence within its presence, and he couldn’t be sure if that was because he had somehow angered it by depriving it of Daisy or if he were merely feeling the effects of his rising panic.

There was no way out. He had finally seen what it meant to have an anchor, and he was no better off for the beholding. He couldn’t very well use his powers of compulsion on himself, and even if he could—well, how could he chain himself to an answer that he didn’t even know?

He was trapped. Trapped, and deeply, deeply _alone_.

He tried to take some small comfort in his success. Finally, he hadn’t been the one to escape at the expense of another. Finally, he had saved someone. Finally.

It was all he had ever wanted, and he was so terribly afraid.

But fear, he deserved—at least more than the rest. And for the price he paid, Daisy would be free. Basira would be...better, if not quite the same. Together, they could protect the Institute from Peter Lukas, he was sure. Even if Melanie had lost the will to fight. Even if Martin—

Jon felt his chest constrict, which was impossible, obviously. This... It wasn’t fair to Martin, was it? Martin, who had suffered heaven knows what at the hands of Elias, and then Peter Lukas.

Contrary to what was apparently popular belief these days, Jon was not a complete fool. He knew that Martin couldn’t be putting himself in such obvious danger without reason, and he understood the man well enough deduce said reason with relative ease. Unfortunately, this made him quite confident that Martin had carefully and deliberately labored to protect everyone at the Institute...until Jon had gone and upset whatever delicate balance he had struck by waking up from his mortal coma, gotten in his way about half a dozen times, and then ended up as good as dead again almost immediately.

He could only hope that Martin would consider this an easing of his burden, and not a failure on his part. Martin didn’t deserve that sort of regret, after all he had done. It wouldn’t be fair.

Not that he had ever been fair to Martin. Martin, who lectured him and fussed over him and cared about him, persisting through days and weeks and sometimes months without receiving so much as a kind word in return. Jon had never meant to withhold them—he just could never find the right ones. And then...the time had gotten away from him, somehow.

Martin had been there from the first. Tripping over himself when asked to help with a statement. Delivering lectures about the importance—and “adorable” habits—of spiders. Bringing a new mug of tea just as the last had come up empty. Surreptitiously scribbling lines of poetry into a composition book when he was supposed to be working. Using his whole body to block the door to the Archives because _you are supposed to be home resting, Jon._

Martin had been there at the last. In the Archives at all hours, just in case Jon stopped by for something. Fussing over wounds that no natural power could heal. Designing a complex plans to snare Elias. Refusing to give all of the details in a manner that suggested that he was intending to do something reckless. Saying _you’ll just have to trust me, Jon._  And then watching them depart for the Unknowing, eyes somber and face pale.

Jon should have said something then, really. He had thought about it. Had wanted to say something, anything. But in the end, he had been unable to choose what, amongst the years’ worth of sentiments gone unsaid, he should leave behind with Martin when he departed. Didn’t know what he could say to someone awaiting a return that might never come.

But he _had_ returned—eventually, anyway. He had come back, and he knew that deep down, within the unexamined recesses of his heart, he had expected Martin to be there. Because Martin had always been there. Until he wasn’t. And Jon was lost.

...

...Ah.

Leave it to Jonathan Sims, ever chasing bits of red string thither and yon and never managing to quite go anywhere, to miss the web holding his life together.

He might’ve smiled at that, in spite of everything. Might’ve closed his eyes, and taken a deep breath, and smiled. But it was already dark, and he couldn’t...he couldn’t.

Instead, he used the only part of his body that still mattered, and conjured within his mind something he had never—even through the paranoia and the fear, the pain and the regret—managed to forget.

_Streets, by Martin K Blackwood_

Had Martin ever actually decided on a pen name? He supposed he’d never know.

_The streets are hard in London._

_Paved in old secrets, the hot smell after the rains._

_The threads of people walking, living, loving..._  

 

* * *

 

 

The office was silent but for the rustle of paper. Melanie was sifting through the statements in and around Jon’s desk, periodically placing one in the pile next to Basira. For her part, Basira was plucking them one by one off the pile with her free hand—her other arm occupied with the weight of a sleeping Daisy—and reading them at incredible speed, eyes whipping back and forth as they traced line after line.

Martin only sat, knees hugged tightly to his chest. He felt for all the world as if he were back at Jon’s bedside, watching his chest fail to rise and fall, static heart monitor glowing an unneeded reminder that his pulse was as absent as his breath. He had at least been able to come to a decision, then—to find focus in convincing himself that he would be able to help the man, even were he never to open his eyes again. Now, though… He was at a loss, and for all his efforts, no more capable of reaching Jon than he ever had been. He didn’t even have the right to beg him to come back this time, did he?

_I miss you._

He buried his face in his arms, and remained like that for a long, long while.

 

* * *

 

 

There was no sound of flesh or wood or space being rent open, no rush of movement as Jon emerged into what passed for reality these days, and yet, he knew that he had. Knew so powerfully that he was momentarily unable to move, so astounded was he at how much the feeling of being seen inside and out felt like home.

Yet move he did, eventually, standing up out of a pile of soil and looking around the office. It was rather more heavily occupied than he remembered. He saw Melanie, Basira, Daisy—blinking sleepily, but thankfully intact—and...Martin? _What?_

Jon stared. Martin was curled into himself, shoulders slumped, head down. He might’ve been asleep, were his fingers not so obviously clenched in the fabric of his trousers. It was not an unfamiliar posture. Jon imagined he would’ve looked much the same, on his worst days. When he felt like nothing he did would ever be enough.

He should say something. He wanted to say something, but a lump was rising in his throat, so he looked away instead. And realized that the others were all gaping at him. Awkward.

Glancing down, Jon said the first thing that came to mind.

“...Who tracked all of this dirt into my Archives?”

Basira snorted. Martin’s head snapped up.

Jon looked at him. Martin’s expression was halfway between wonder and panic as he slowly stood up. Jon thought that he might be preparing to flee. Already. Again. Nobody moved.

This wasn’t— He hadn’t expected Martin to actually be here. But he was. He was, and this very well might be the last opportunity Jon would have to speak with him. To say what he ought to have said long ago. That dreadfully simple sentiment that he might have conveyed at any point were he not such a disaster of a person. Monster? Monster-person.

_Jon, if this really is a second chance, please try to take it._

“Martin.”

Martin didn’t reply, but he didn’t run, either. He was now doing a rather excellent impression of what Jon figured he himself must’ve looked like while being chased through the tunnels by the not!Sasha, all wide eyes and stiffened muscle. But, well, he would take what he could get at this point.

“Martin, I...” he trailed off. Good god, this was hard. He tried again. “I, uh, read your poetry.”

Martin emitted a small “eep!” and took a step back.

Jon momentarily considered letting the coffin reclaim him, or at least shoving a few fistfuls of dirt into his mouth so that he couldn’t say anything else mortifying. Poetry, really? That was definitely not what he had been going for. Not what—it somehow occurred to him for the first time—Martin probably needed to hear. That, more than anything, forced the words out of him at last. “Look, I just…” He took a deep breath. “Thank you. Thank you for being here.” _Finally._ “I...er, found my way back. Because of you.”

There was a brief silence, during which Martin managed to look more alarmed than ever.

And then, as if a spell had been broken, Martin’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders. He was embracing him, laughing into his hair, heedless of the dirt that still covered Jon head to toe. It was just for a moment, as Jon held his breath, but even when it ended, Martin stayed. In fact, he remained a little closer than was strictly necessary. Jon found he didn’t mind.

“Jon, you are _so stupid_.”

“What, you’re just noticing now?” Daisy said, as all three of the others approached the dirt pile. “I mean, thanks, but…” she gestured broadly in his general direction, “what the hell?”

“Seriously,” said Basira, whacking him with a rolled-up statement, “What was that plan? ‘Oh, I’ll just pop out a bone and jump into the coffin, what could possibly go wrong?’”

“You should’ve seen him when he did it, too,” Melanie, hands on her hips, chimed in, “got his rib out and fainted dead away.”

“Excuse you, it was two ribs."

“What!?” exclaimed Martin.

“One for Jared’s statement.”

“You’re trading body parts for statements now? Jon, you have a problem.”

“I do not,” Jon insisted to Basira, not because it was true, but because he could.

He did, in fact, have many problems, of which the statements were only one. But the twisted weft of horror that was his life, the waves lapping at the door in his mind, the machinations of powers beyond any of their comprehension—none of it loomed quite so large at the moment.

“...So,” Daisy piped up, “can I kick his ass now?”

**Author's Note:**

> There was a LOT of stylistic experimentation in this, so if you read all the way through, I thank you for putting up with me. :p Pleeeaaase talk to me about TMA on tumblr @stopitjon


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